


Distractions

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Not Agents Of SHIELD compliant, Post-Avengers, Use Your Words, get-together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 18:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1718672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they need a distraction in the field, Clint Barton ALWAYS grabs the nearest person to make out with as messily and distractingly as possible.  Unless the nearest person is Phil Coulson.  Him, he won't kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

Being an agent of SHIELD, Phil has always told the baby agents on the first day he gets with them, is a standing and constant exercise in taking things as they come, in planning for contingencies and never planning for enough of them, and in trusting one's team even when it looks like there's no winning move.

The result of this is that agents who survive and thrive are agents who have natural talent, deliberately-honed skill, or both (probably both) in: creating distractions; remaining focused under circumstances too damned ridiculous to write down because one would be accused of gross hyperbole; and holding hard onto humanity and decency despite frequent ethical challenges no philosopher wants to work with.

He tells them that, too, usually right before someone who doesn't report to him creates an unannounced (even to him) high-end (read: calamitous) disruptive (think a hundred cats with nonlethal explosives strapped to them, accompanied by several screaming preschoolers) distraction in the training room, and he watches them respond to whatever conditions subsequently unfold. Usually those conditions require them to make quick decisions that might harm civilians and involve a handful of common fear triggers.

On day two, those who didn't take the opportunity to consider a different line of work debrief, and then they start talking about the specific techniques employed in the previous day's distraction, and that leads right into a discussion and practical examples of how and why to be the one doing the misdirecting, rather than the one reacting to it.

Now, technically, SHIELD doesn't teach or practice exact or particular distraction options or scenarios in training because obviously every situation evolves, but there are a handful of standards--fistfight, kissing, troll in the dungeon--that everyone becomes aware of and chooses from in a moment when things are about to go south. What they _do_ teach and practice is, if your trusted partner in the field suddenly does something wildly unexpected, like punch you or kiss you or roll a handful of marbles through a crowded ballroom without more than an eyebrow of warning, go with it and ask questions later, because it's likely-- _very_ likely--that she or he has seen something and needs to create a distraction _right this second_. 

Naturally, different personnel develop (or are born with) different favorite ways to create a distraction. Some plant small explosive devices to be triggered if needed; others are in medical four or five times a year for contusions sustained in a (faked, but so is pro wrestling and the blood seen there is real) fracas with a colleague. Fistfights are probably the single most common approach, because why mess with a classic? But there are others; Miles Jameson has a freaky skill of delivering a believable and astoundingly boring on-the-fly lecture at least tangentially relevant to almost any topic, and somehow commanding the attention of the room--Phil's actually kind of jealous of that one, but then, it does mean Jameson nearly always goes into the field wearing facial prosthetics, because if he has to go into lecture mode, everyone's going to be looking at him. So there's a down side. Still, kind of jealous.

And then there's Agent Barton. Agent Barton's favorite distraction, by a margin through which a novice and frightened pilot might fly the helicarrier, is kissing, the dirtier the better.

Sometimes it'd only draw the kind of attention no spy wants, so it's not always appropriate even for someone as apparently naturally-gifted at the job as Barton is, but when he makes that call? It usually works. There are no bruises (usually, unless passers-by find it so offensive they start a brawl), people stop and gawp if the kiss is explicit or inappropriate enough, and there's the bonus that it's relatively easy to position oneself such that faces are shielded and no one ends up with a mug shot on the news, explicit or otherwise. So he sees why Barton likes it. 

But what Phil isn't quite clear on is why, even though, in a decade of watching in which he's seen a hundred mission go sideways or over a cliff, there is virtually no one that Barton won't plant a wet, dirty, utterly distracting kiss on at the drop of a mission-imploding hat, why he, Phil, seems to be on the no-kiss list right next to Natasha.

Natasha, he understands; her training and recruitment were unique and for her, kissing on the job is an entirely different (and somewhat disturbing, although Phil knows that's because he has the privilege of not expecting that paying for things with sex is a normal and ordinary thing to do) strategic endeavor and one with which Barton has told her he's not going to engage. So that makes sense.

But Phil... All right, one time three and a half years ago Barton did turn to him for the distraction kiss. Just once, with a look and a tiny jerk of his head to the left where Phil could see everything about to fall apart. Just the once, Barton leaned into him. He brushed their lips together. He paused there, just touching, and drew in a breath.

And then he stepped back, shrugged, and threw a punch.

To his pride and credit, Phil remains a surviving and thriving agent, because he is, yes, adept at rolling with whatever comes; he turned with the blow to minimize the impact, and came back with a yank and twist maneuver that took the fight momentarily to the floor. 

Turning it into a fight had probably been the right call, given that Phil's heart had been beating out of his chest with pathetic anticipation of those lips on his, a wholly different distraction than the one Barton had been trying to engender. It was good to know that he could still hold his own in a fight (sure, Barton eventually won, but Phil looks like an actuary, so he was pretty sure the distractees thought it was a moral victory, whatever that was), even under such challenging circumstances. Even while he was busy processing the extent to which he was challenged. Even if it was still true that wherever they'd been going, it would have been extremely distracting.

But it hadn't made it any less frustrating.

Besides, that was then and this is now, and while yes, he _could_ still hold his own, three and a half years ago and therefore two years and change before Loki and the spear and an uncomfortable amount of scar tissue, his options now look a little different. Rehab is all well and good--he has back at least ninety percent of his range of motion on all axes; he passes the field physical, which isn't exactly designed for the infirm; and he knows he can still put baby agents on the floor in seconds--but still, he isn't up to his own standards. Not really. He's only in the field because not being in the field is completely unacceptable, because he has agents and assets in danger and sitting at home has never been his game.

And because he _is_ cleared to be; no amount of informing Fury he was going would have worked if he had been a liability, not that he'd have been clamoring to go if he'd do more harm than good anyway. There's a reason this is his first time out in nearly fourteen months.

All of this is not helping right this minute, hunkered down and panting next to Barton and trying to get an angle to get a good look at what's going on around the corner. Chaos hasn't broken out yet, but it's pretty clear the situation is well outside the expected curve of events, or more to the point well inside the curve of clusterfuck trying to happen, and even thought they busted ass to get here, no one else is in range. Carey and Jackson are waiting for the buyer, but they don't have the intel in hand yet and Barton is gesturing for Phil to look at the guy coming through the door. It's the contact, and Barton sighs. "How're your dance moves?" he murmurs.

"Dance dance, or fight dance?" Phil asks. Not that there's a dance floor.

Barton rolls his eyes. "I don't actually want to hit you."

"There are other distraction options," Phil reminds him. "For example, if you can find me a bag of flour..."

Barton doesn't answer, but does a quick pat-down of his sleeves and ribs, checking his armament. "If I'd brought my bow..." he says.

"You'd be leaving an unmistakable calling card, and Gentry's not an idiot." 

Barton glances over his shoulder, scowls, then brightens. "Oh, that's better." He beckons as Phil looks to see who he's found. 

Ah, and there's Lia Cordero with the chip. "Perfect timing," Phil says. He turns back to Barton in time to see a jerk of the head, an expression that involves a couple of eyerolls and a twitch, and Barton loosening up his shoulders, and then Cordero's coming up on his side and pressing a packet into Phil's hands and going on by, letting Barton drag her around the corner as Phil blinks. What?

He peers around to see the two of them putting on a show, Barton pushed back against the wall and looking for all the world like Cordero's tongue is all the sustenance he'll ever need. Phil sighs and glances down at the packet, then puts on his mousiest face and goes past them, glancing up and down because not-noticing would look strange, to make the drop in Carey's bag.

Barton and Cordero, despite an ongoing and fairly angry dispute about appropriate gym etiquette that means they mostly ignore each other out of the field, have done this before and they do put on a truly scorching display, which is why Gentry ignores Phil entirely as they brush past each other--he's too busy eyeballing the uproar back the way Phil came. He looks back to see them spin around the corner groping each other's clothes like they're looking for a pretense of privacy, and smirks as he goes out the door.

Ninety seconds later, and shortly after a boom that seems to be a whole separate distraction set into motion by the beta team, they both saunter around the front of the building to meet back up with him, and from there nothing's left but a walk to the car with Barton wiping his mouth on the back of his forearm.

Phil sighs. "I _am_ cleared for duty," he reminds them both. "No restrictions."

Cordero looks back and forth between him and Barton and shrugs. "As you say," is all Phil gets out of her. Barton says nothing, just jerks his thumb toward the convenience store and gets back two nods before he makes the coffee run for all of them. Jackson and Carey emerge from the plaza and make brief eye contact as they head for their separate car where they'll meet up with Wu, and Phil nods, pleased that everyone got out unscathed.

Phil climbs into the back of the car and starts working on the report, keeping his eyes on it, and not at all on either of them as they drive back to the safehouse. It's not that he's ignoring them - he answers when they speak and offers comments into their conversation between sips of sweetened black coffee; it's just, getting the paperwork done while everything's still fresh has always been his personal policy, and also, if he looks at Barton, he's just going to go imagining him kissing the hell out of a woman he doesn't even like, and that's going to end in frustration.

Obviously, he's going to have to work out how not to get his shorts in a knot over this; distractions are supposed to distract _the other guy_ , not one's own team. But he'll get himself together. He always has before.

He's also never been as urgently distressed as this time, and maybe it's just his own worries--about his fitness to be there, about whether his team makes different calls to protect him than the calls that would be best for them, about how fast he can move if he needs to (it's fast enough; by any objective standard he exceeds the minimums, but he knows he's lost a step and his improvement has slowed enough that he can't help but feel it's probably not coming back).

But. He's sometimes referred to by the baby agents (and by Fury, but Fury's showing off to the babies) as a legend, and he'll get his shit together, eventually. He sits there for a moment after they arrive back at the house and rereads the report, then saves it to submit on the secure line inside and opens the door to get out. Cordero's in and probably upstairs getting cleaned up already, but Barton's still standing there, leaning against the trunk with his ankles crossed, but waiting any longer would just look weird, and well, see: legend. He can't just stay in the car all day. He spares a glance in his general direction, not meeting his eyes, and comes around the car.

“Barton.”

“Bossman.” Barton rocks his upper body forward to bring himself upright and walks toward the little gate, looking over his shoulder to casually say, “So, you seem inexplicably pissed.”

“Our mission just nearly fell off the rails because of a timing fuck-up.”

“Oh, so there's nothing else going on?” Barton narrows his eyes. “No other problem?”

Phil gives that little twitch of the head that isn't quite a headshake. “Nope.”

“Right.” Barton holds the gate for Phil. “Sir, you know how we're not supposed to tell people their own tells?”

“What?” Phil frowns at the non sequitur. “Yes, it allows them to try to retrain--”

“Yeah, anyway, you use the word nope like that when you are drunk, or when you are trying to look casual but you have something to be tense about. You don't use it in general conversation. Also, you do this thing where you flex the fingers of your left hand. Yeah, like that. That was me telling you your tells, so spill.”

“I don't think that's how it works,” Phil says, relying on his fallback bland tone and efficient briskness. He makes for the door ahead of Barton, glancing back just for a second as he speaks.

“Does now. You pissed I said I didn't want to hit you? Because that's what I'd be pissed about.”

Phil arches a brow and deliberately says, “Nope,” making the 'p' pop a little. “There's no reason you couldn't, but I wasn't really looking forward to it anyway. Two hundred and thirty stitches, and I'm cleared, but it probably still woulda sucked.”

“Then what?”

Phil sighs. “Barton, I'm fine.”

“Yeah, I know. I wasn't really implying--”

“I said we're fine. So we're discussing this because...?” Sure, it's a redirect, and probably Barton, who is good at both providing distractions and seeing through them, won't be swayed, but Phil can hope. Jesus, it's like he's a teenager with a crush. 

“Because you're pissed, and you won't say why. And usually you don't keep shit from me. Except for being nondead, I mean, but even that, eventually.”

“So, you're still cranky about all the operational security involved in my resur--look, can we discuss this _after_ I report on today?”

Barton shrugs and follows Phil into the room he's been sleeping in, which is the only one on the ground floor because apparently someone somewhere isn't sure he can handle _stairs_ , which, see: fully cleared for duty, but he hasn't had a reason to bring it up that didn't seem petty, so here he is. “Not stoppin' ya,” Barton says. He plunks down on the easy chair and makes be-my-guest gestures with his hands. 

Phil doesn't really have a graceful way to leave the room, given that; there's a secure line in here and just because he seems to have lost all perspective about Barton sitting next to his damn bed somewhere since the last time they worked together is a terrible reason to go file the report from the kitchen. He picks up his tablet and connects, reshuffling through the various appendices and associated forms until he's certain everything is in the file. Well, and a little longer; it gives him space to settle himself. Finally, he hits send and looks up. “So, resurrection is the topic of the day?” 

“Nope, the topic of the day is why the shit you won't look at me since we got back to the car, why you haven't even checked me for shrapnel which, as I recall, you used to do every single time anything went boom. Talk.”

Phil sets the tablet down and crosses his arms over his chest. “Barton, sometimes I'm not sure you're clear on the chain of command.”

“I'm clear, but you know I'll call out anyone who's being a douche, and not that you're totally being one, but you aren't...you never act like this.”

“How do you know? Maybe I changed in the--you know, it's been fourteen months since I was last in the field. Maybe I realized you can check your own ass for shrapnel if I'm not there.”

“Yeah, duh, and hey by the way, that part about not looking me in the eye?”

Phil presses his lips together and looks up, meeting Barton's gaze firmly and for a long moment. “Happy?”

“Sure. Thrilled. Now what the hell is going on?” Barton stands up. “We're _always_ fine in the field even when I'm being a jackass on base, which, not that I do that entirely on purpose but I mean, I always know about it because everyone else gets all pissy and you're still you, so...”

Phil keeps his arms folded tight. Barton isn't going to let this go, and God help him if he decides to go ask Natasha. “Fine. I don't know why it is you'll kiss anyone in the world, practically fuck them against a wall in public as a distraction even if they stole your dog and ate your last packet of ramen, but when it's me, it's all about the fistfights. What the hell, Barton, you say you don't want to beat me up, but it's better than forty seconds of--”

“Okay, are you for serious right now?” Barton is staring at Phil, eyes wide, brows up, and Phil stops short.

“Well, yes.” 

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” Phil brings up one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose because Christ, he never ought to have started this line of conversation and he knew that when he did it, and besides that there's no good way out, he's also about to sound like a jealous child who has no right to be jealous anyway. Damn it. He takes a breath, but Barton jumps back in.

“Yes, why? Why are you worried about this?” He does sound genuinely puzzled, and his eyes have gone a little suspicious, and shit, Phil tries never to put this particular agent in a place where he has to feel suspicious at home; he's had enough of that shit in his life.

He takes the hand off his face and shakes his head. “Look, it's not as though you aren't entitled to find everyone else in the agency more appealing, nor is it that I have any interest in ordering you to kiss me even in the field because there are reasons for policies concerning power differentials. However, since it _is_ your most preferred means of distraction, and I _am_ often in the damned field with you, it's clearly apparently to me that for some reason, I'm abhorrent to you. And since you don't want to fight with me and clearly don't want to kiss me, and since sometimes I'm who's there with you, what I want to know, Agent, is whether we have a problem.”

“Uh. Yeah.” Barton stands up and approaches Phil, stopping just shy of his personal space bubble and folding his arms to mirror Phil. 

“Perfect. What is it, and what suggestions do you have for remediation?” Phil asks crisply even though he's afraid the obvious suggestion for remediation is for him to park it behind a desk for good and let Barton do his job.

Naturally, it can't be that easy. “First I have a question.”

“Of course you do.” Phil sighs. “I hope I have an answer.”

“Do you _want_ to order me to kiss you?”

“What? No! That is, in the sense we all sometimes give and follow orders to do things with our bodies that we won't be able to forgive ourselves--”

“Not what I meant.”

“...And what you did mean was?”

“I meant, if I kissed you in the field, what would happen?”

“That's not the same question at all.”

“I know. Also, I know the answer.” He pauses and looks past Phil's ear as he explains, “If I kissed you in the field, I would completely lose track of the distractee, any targets, and possibly my own name. I would stop giving all possible fucks about the op or my other colleagues. I would probably not care if shooting started, because I would be way, way too involved in what I was doing, which is why I _can't_ shove my tongue down your throat in the field. Anyone else, not that distracting. To me, I mean.”

Phil stares at him. Finally, he says weakly, “What?”

Barton looks at the floor and mumbles, “I don't kiss you because it only works as a distraction with people I'm not, you know, kinda, I guess, attached to? Orinlovewith.”

Phil stares some more. “You... okay, I didn't see that coming.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn't going to tell you, because obviously you--it's not like you'd want, except you seem like, um, maybe it's like how I'd feel if you jumped Ward in the field or something, which, for the record, I'd hate watching that, and so if you hate it maybe, you know, there's something, um.” Barton looks up with a combination of defiance and shyness and adds, “But I can be professional, sir. It's not like I can't work with you. I _want_ to work with you. I just don't want to kiss you unless you mean it.”

“Unless _I_ mean it?”

“Yeah. I already know _I_ would.”

Phil uncrosses his arms and drops his hands to his sides. “And if I did?”

“Is this hypothetical?”

“No...pe.”

Clint looks sharply at him. “What?”

“I said nope. Because I have something to feel tense about, because Barton, I'm your boss, and I'm about to take a step forward into your space, and if you're fucking with me, it'll look like... I'm not in the habit of making my agents open their mouths for my tongue.”

“What? No. Nope, this is on me.” Barton steps into Phil's space before he can move, and then he's flush up against him, chest to chest, fingers curled into Phil's belt loops, eyes wide and questioning as he tilts his head and leans in.

It's just a brush of the lips, and then he moves away like he's checking for permission, and Phil is having _none_ of that; if they're doing this, then they're doing it right. He chases Barton's mouth and opens against it, and oh. Yes, they're doing it right. He moves them around the bed without looking, glad that Barton has all that balance and kinesthetic awareness honed in all his circus time because it means they get there and land on the mattress unscathed with Phil's hand up Barton's t-shirt and Barton's fingers working their way down the back of Phil's pants.

“Gonna wrinkle your suit, sir,” Barton murmurs.

“Phil.”

Barton grins against his mouth and kisses him again. “Gonna wrinkle your suit, _Phil_ ,” he amends.

“Yeah, you were right,” Phil says. 

“What?”

“Stopped giving all possible fucks. Barton--”

“Okay, seriously?”

“What?”

“Barton is the guy in the field. In here, with my hand on your ass and me calling you Phil, I'mma have to insist you use my name.”

“Fair enough.” Phil squirms out of his jacket and tosses it to land not _too_ badly on the chair, then rolls Bar--Clint onto his back and straddles him. “Clint, how long should we have been doing this?”

“In the field? Never.”

“No, that part I understand now. Not in the field.”

Clint wrinkles his nose. “Long time, sir.”

“ _Phil_. Just out of curiosity, does Natasha know this is...” He gestures back and forth between them. “This is a thing?”

“Yeah. Why, she know you want--damn it, Nat. Worst. Matchmaker. Ever.”

Phil grins at the little scowl Clint develops as he says that, and then leans down to kiss it. “She probably has her reasons.”

“Yeah. Comic relief,” Clint grumbles. He slides his arms up under Phil's armpits and then folds them at the elbows, holding Phil down against him and cradling the back of his head. “But enough about her. We were working on something way more important.”

Phil has to agree, they were. He kisses Clint one more time, then pulls back. “We have probably forty minutes before we know if the buy worked. I'm looking for options.”

“You want to draw up backup plans _now_?”

Phil shakes his head. “Options for what we should do in that time.”

Clint arches up his hips, pressing his erection against Phil's groin, and shrugs. “Nothing comes to mind. Sir. You got anything?”

Phil considers the earlier display Clint and Lia had put on at the plaza and purses his lips. “I might have a few ideas. One of them might involve pinning you up against a wall.”

“When we got a perfectly good bed right here?” Clint shakes his head and started unbuttoning Phil's shirt, tugging the front panels out of his pants and curving his big hands around Phil's chest and ribs. “No way. Back of the door is fun when you're in a hurry, but forty minutes is plenty of time, right?” 

“Right.” Phil shoves Clint's shirt up and ducks down to suck wet pink spots on his belly as his fingers work on the buttons of his pants. Clint gasps, and Phil looks up. “Okay?”

“What? _Yes_. I just, can you...” Clint reaches and tears his jeans open, lifting his hips to let Phil take them off at the same time as he's undoing the fastener on Phil's.

“Hey Coulson?” Lia knocks once and opens the door, then stops, startled, before grinning and backing out so she's talking through the few inches she's left the door open, but isn't looking at them. “Oh, is _this_ what I was warming you up for? About time. Boss, the whole thing went a lot faster than we expected. Jackson's on his way in, and Carey's on the horn with Fury. Orders?”

Phil, who is frozen where he was with Clint's pants shoved down and his own cock hanging out through his zipper, knows his face has gone bright red, although Clint just looks smug, and what the hell, why does he look smug for sex with _him_? He shakes his head and starts to get up, but Clint grips tighter and shakes his head. “Five minutes,” he mouths. “They can give us five minutes.”

“Sounds unsatisfying,” Phil murmurs.

“Not as unsatisfying as stopping now. C'mon. Five minutes.”

Phil glances at the door and wets his lips, pauses, and says, “Cordero, do you recall the training event in which we discussed distraction techniques?”

“Sir?”

“Pretend this is one and improvise. I think you did pretty well on those exercises, did you not?”

“I did, sir. I'll improvise for, let's say, ten minutes?”

“Will you need us sooner?”

“I'll let you know if I do.” She closes the door, then opens it a crack again and says, “But make it snappy. You can wait for the honeymoon for anything epic. But congratulations.” Then she shuts the door for real, and they hear footsteps receding.

Phil drops his forehead onto Clint's shoulder. “I'm pretty sure I just lost control of the situation.”

“Pssht. You'll put on the jacket and everyone will trust you again. Although now _I'm_ going to have to deal with jealous teammates. Oh, well.” Clint pushes his hand between them and wraps his fingers around Phil's cock, stroking one slow pull upward, and Phil groans.

“Yeah, okay, but you heard the lady. Snappy. Epic, and I really do want to get to epic, is going to have to wait.”

Clint chuckles and pulls Phil up to kiss him, wrapping both arms around him and sliding his calves over the back of Phil's knees so they can rub against each other as they kiss some more. “All a matter of perspective,” he says between pecks and nibbles. “Far as I'm concerned, compared to everything else, this is epic enough for the moment.”

As Clint's cockhead slides past Phil's, the heads catching on each other just for an instant, Phil decides he's inclined to agree.

\--

“Being an agent of SHIELD,” Phil says, eying the lineup of baby agents before him, “has sometimes been characterized as a standing and constant exercise in taking things as they come, in planning for contingencies and never planning for enough of them, and in trusting one's team even when it looks like there's no winning move.”

They all nod.

“For that reason,” he goes on, “one of the exercises we like to work on early and often is--gmmpfh!”

He doesn't know how he failed to realize Clint was in the rafters, but he's not there any more. Phil brings his arms up and around him automatically as he falls into the kiss, but a moment later he pulls back. “Clint. The--”

Clint grins and murmurs, “Field distraction where it doesn't matter if you and I are just as distracted because you can review the video later. Explosions in a few seconds, FYI.” And he goes back to kissing Phil, ignoring the muttering, the bangs, the smoke, the squeals and shrieks, the paint grenades, and the two hundred bunnies suddenly in the room.

Phil has to admit, he has a point. Still, he only lets it go on a few more seconds, because being a grownup is a pain in the ass, before resuming his role in the exercise. 

“See you this evening?” he asks.

Clint winks. “Ready and waiting. Hurry home.”

Phil groans and goes back to watching Kim and Dillon argue about who's behind the grenades and hopes, this year, it all winds up fast.


End file.
